He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush’d in his chariot’s track,
The turf looks red where he won the day.
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s way!
Bring flowers to the captive’s lonely cell!
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell—
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers!